


Tuesday Afternoon

by mirandamyth



Series: Tropes [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bars and Pubs, Bartenders, Drabble, Drunk Dean, Drunkenness, Gen, M/M, No Sex, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-12 17:54:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7943788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirandamyth/pseuds/mirandamyth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2.Bartender AU — "You want me to call the guy who abandoned you at a motel in texas last week?" aka the one where Dean misses Cas and complains to a bartender about his friend who, "just up and leaves. Fucking disappears all the goddamn time."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tuesday Afternoon

**Author's Note:**

> So not exactly a bartender AU, but.. it IS an AU. Cas is still powered up, heaven is still full of dicks with wings, no metatron, trials completed, but without killing Sammy.

"Hey there, cowboy," the bartender flashes him a grin as he sits down, "what can I getcha?"

"Whiskey straight. Cheapest you got." He knows the smile he sends in her direction is lackluster, the wink insincere. "Make it a double."

She pours it in front of him, (a bit generously) and asks, "So what's got you in a funk, honey?"

"M'not. Just needed a drink." He's not quite lying, but that empty room pulls at the back of his mind, "Been on the road all night."

"Oh, you're in a funk, all right." she says matter-of-factly, wiping the bar top next to him, "Ain't no body ordering a double at two thirty in the afternoon on a Tuesday, 'less they got some heavy boots."

Dean's spared from answering when the old man at the other end hollers for her, and she goes to fill his beer, chats with him amicably, laughing at some (no doubt mildly pervvy) joke. That is, he's saved until he runs out of whiskey, which happens surprisingly fast. When she comes back to refill his glass, she apologizes for, "Leavin' you when you need someone to talk to."

This woman can't possibly know how succinctly she put his problem, how strongly the image of that empty motel room washes over him, and maybe that's why it slips out. "S'not like I ain't used to it," spoken more to the glass at his lips than the woman in front of him. 

"Now what exactly is that s'posed to mean?" She raises an eyebrow when he just tips his empty glass forward, but fills it again, nonetheless.

He sips at the amber liquid, relishing the burn of cheap whiskey, "I, uh, I got this friend, right?" The word friend feels so belittling of what he and Cas are to each other; "he's, you know, he's my _best_ friend, but dude's, uh, _flighty_ as all hell." She fills his glass again (though less generously) without his prompting. "Thanks," he tips the glass her direction, noticing for the first time how blue her eyes are under dark chestnut hair, "So last week, we're in Texas, on a hu-, uh, a road trip, and I go to sleep in this ratty hotel room, a real shitshow, and when I wake up in the morning motherfucker's gone." He runs a hand across his face, gesturing for her to pour another, relieved when she acquiesces, nodding sympathetically. "I shouldn't be surprised he just up and left. He fucking disappears all the goddamn time." He chuckles mirthlessly, "It's kind of his thing."

"I had a man like that, once. He'd come 'round, promisin' me all sortsa adventure, he's gon' take me to Miami, or New Orleans, or Mexico, but, big surprise, 'fore he got the chance to book a trip, he'd get sent on a long haul. Be away again for coupla months. Sometimes, he'd get a call and leave me high and dry in the middle of the night. I know how much it hurts to wake up in an empty bed."

"No, it's — it's not like that." Dean manages to choke out around a swallow of whiskey, "Cas isn't — I mean, I'm not — we don't—"

"It's ok, sweetheart, I got a brother whose bedroom door swings both ways." She pats his arm in what's surely supposed to be a supportive gesture. "Our folks may not get it, but that's just the way he is, ain't nothin' wrong with it." She tops his glass off with a sad smile. "My advice," she offers unsolicited, "dump 'im. It ain't worth the heartache."

Dean's got a million reasons she's wrong reverberating through his head, but what he's thinking and what comes out of his mouth are rarely the same thing, so he grunts noncommittally and asks her to leave the bottle. She looks unsure until he pulls a hundred out of his billfold, flattening it against the damp bar top and meeting her eyes. She gingerly sits the bottle next to the bill, stashing the cash as he pours himself a more generous helping, and saunters away, getting caught up in conversation with the old man at the other end.

She seems to understand that he's not trying to talk, that he doesn't want to, and leaves him well enough alone as the afternoon drags on into the night. Around five, when the bar's starting to fill up, she sets a large glass of ice water in front of him, nodding at the half gallon bottle, and moving on to cheerfully take the order of the couple on his left. It sits until the ice melts, until the condensation has rolled down the sides and pooled on the bar. Until the couple on his left are far more interested in each other's tonsils than any drink in front of them.

He can't get that sour feeling to go away, no matter how much whiskey he tries to drown it with. The curdled feeling he'd woken up with four days ago, the one that's seemed to settle into the pit of his stomach and decided to stay. He's doing more staring into his glass than he is drinking from it, ruminating on all the places it could be coming from. He's given up the hope that it's a result of the Tex-Mex he and Cas had indulged in, because he can pin point the exact moment it started, and it wasn't upon waking, it was the moment he realized just how empty the room was.

 _The alarm blares, and he slams a hand over to silence it. Sits up with a yawn, stretching his arms widely. He rubs his face, casting his eyes over to the other bed, surprised to find it empty. When he'd gone to sleep, Castiel had been sitting at the end of it, studying the television. (That is, after Dean had grumbled loudly at him for attempting to watch him sleep.)_ _He stumbles his way into the bathroom, rubbing at his eyes as he turns on the shower. He takes his time, sure that Cas will know; in the same way he always seems to know when Dean is hungry, or tired, or distressed; that he's awake, sure Cas will be waiting for him on the other side of the door when he's finished shaving. When he's not, Dean shrugs it off, maybe he's found a beehive outside, or the motel has a cat he's caught in conversation with. It isn't until he's packing that he finds Cas's note._

**_Dean,_ **

**_I had to leave. Call if you need me._ **

_"Call if you need me," what kind of vague ass bullshit is that? He flips the note over, as though Castiel would have described exactly where he'd be going on the back of the hotel's stationary. Spoiler alert: he doesn't. The back is just as uninformative as the front, and twice as frustrating. There's a hot, sour feeling building in his gut, and_ _h_ _e almost calls Cas. Right then and there, but the note had said 'if you_ need _me,' not 'when you wake up,' or 'if you want to talk,' or 'if you'd like me to tag along with you indefinitely, as though I'm not actually an ancient celestial being.' And, despite the panic in the back of his mind, the little voice demanding that Castiel gets his feathery ass back here right the fuck now, he can't really say he needs Cas in the way that the note implies, just that he wishes he hadn't left._

He had almost called Sam. Almost. But he can't, because Sam got out. It's not Sam's fault that hunting and credit scams are all Dean's ever been good at. He can't call him out of retirement just 'cause he's _lonely_. Or nostalgic, or whatever. So he'd found a case (alone), gotten in his car (alone), and headed east (alone). He'd taken care of the ghost last night, simple and straightforward, just harder on his back to be the only one digging (or to have to dig at all, Cas could've incinerated the remains while they were still six feet under). Dean's been thinking about it, about why Cas left, and he thinks cases like this last one might be why. Hell, they make _Dean_ feel rinky-dink, and Cas has fought celestial _wars_.

He reaches the end of his bottle around the same time his bladder reaches its limit. He slides off the stool, last finger of whiskey in hand, water undrunk and forgotten behind him. With every step he takes, he can feel the alcohol hitting him just a little harder. He's relieved to find the bathrooms are single serve, even more so to find them unoccupied. Downing the last dregs of whiskey from his glass, he unzips and leans a forearm against the wall — closely followed by his head, enjoying the cool tile against his flushed skin.

A sharp rap at the door gets his attention, and he tucks himself away, splashes water on his face, forces an apologetic grin, and prepares to face the guy he's been holding up. Only it isn't a man, it's the bartender from earlier, and the room behind her is almost empty. Dean glances at the _Miller Time_ clock above the bar, astonished to find it now reads almost half past midnight, and he's sure it had barely been eleven when he'd walked into the bathroom. He must have fallen asleep, pressed against the bathroom wall.

"I can't letcha drive home like this, darlin'." She purses her lips, "'is'ere anyone I can call for you?"

Dean fishes his phone out of his pocket, trying and failing to unlock it twice before handing it over and just telling her the password. "Call Cas."

"You want me to call the guy who abandoned you in Texas?" She raises her eyebrows, "You sure he's even gon' come for you?"

"Cas always comes," Dean tries to reassure her, "he be here in no time."

She doesn't look like she believes him, but the obvious desire to go home wins out, "Fine," she says, hitting the call button, "but if he don' answer —"

Whatever it was she would have done is cut off by a gruff "Dean?" halfway through the first ring.

"He's here," she says, "an' your boyfriend's spent the better part of the last ten hours drinking nearly half a gallon of whiskey." Dean shakes his head frantically at the word boyfriend, but she ignores him, listening to whatever Cas is saying on the other end. "You're damn right, he's intoxicated." Dean can her the rumble of Cas's voice, but can't make out what he's saying, his brain still running circles around the term boyfriend. "It's just off 107, outside of Herber Springs. How soon you gon' be here? Fifteen? Sounds like —" She pulls the phone away from her ear, handing it back, "He hung up on me, but he says he's comin'. You can wait here for 'im, but I gotta finish cleanin' up."

"'M gonna wait outside," he calls to her after a minute, pushing his way out into the night. She's shut the exterior lights off, the neon sign which had grabbed his attention no longer flooding the parking lot in green light. There's a single street light in the center of the lot, under which is a familiar figure in a trench coat. (At the sight of him, alive and whole and very much _there_ , the foul mood he's harbored seems to drift away.) Dean's not sure if he wants to wrap his arms around the angel and never let go, or risk breaking every bone in his hand by punching him in the face. He settles for neither, slinging an arm around Cas and dangling the keys from his other hand, "You're gonna hafta drive, buddy. I'm a little too drunk."

Cas takes the keys from him without comment, but the arm that slips solidly around his back speaks volumes.


End file.
